


the road not taken looks real good now

by archers_and_spies



Category: Marvel
Genre: Best Friends to Lovers, Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, Christmas, F/M, Friends to Lovers, New Year's Eve, Song: 'tis the damn season (Taylor Swift)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archers_and_spies/pseuds/archers_and_spies
Summary: It’s been three years since she moved to LA for her career. Three years since the two of them stopped joking around about what he’d do when Alexei and Melina finally saved up enough for her to get out of there; three years since the hug at the airport which didn’t really feel like a hug and more like things they left unsaid.And there was so, so much.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	the road not taken looks real good now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitterlighthouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterlighthouse/gifts), [ashlearose13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashlearose13/gifts).



> hi so i have no idea what i was on that made me think i would be able to finish this fic but apparently it was the same thing that let me finish it 🤠 let's go cheree nation!!  
> thank you to all my friends ilysm to smee for telling me how the complicated world of ballet works and jas i hope u and that boy work out this fic is for u especially 😭😭

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

The knock that comes at Natasha’s practice room door startles her. Wanda relaxes her posture and they look up to see Peter Parker standing in the hallway, an awkward smile on his face. Natasha’s gaze snaps to the clock on the wall.

“Damn,” she mutters. “Didn’t realise it was six already. I’m so sorry—grab your things, Wanda. Parker, come in.”

After thanking her for the lesson, Wanda leaves and Peter walks in with a half-concerned frown on his face. “Natasha, have you been taking no breaks in between your lessons?”

“It’s Miss Natasha to you,” she corrects. Her soft spot for Peter doesn’t equal a first name basis, especially not when he’s a student. “And no, I’ve only shortened my breaks for this week. Go get changed.”

Ignoring this, he presses on. “Have you eaten?”

“I had a whole sandwich for lunch. I’m fine.”

Without a word, Peter starts ruffling through his backpack and pulls a wrapped taco out, stretching his arm out to offer it to Natasha.

She scoffs, “I’m not going to eat a random taco that you got from who-knows-where,” but her stomach in an act of betrayal decides to growl loudly at the sight of it. Natasha sighs as Peter’s smile turns smug, reluctantly accepting the taco.

“It won’t hurt to take a few bites while you watch my routine,” Peter suggests before disappearing into the changing room. God, that boy is way too generous for his own good.

Natasha does appreciate it, though. Today’s her last day in LA, and it probably wouldn’t do her any good to board a night flight on an empty stomach.

To Natasha’s unsurprise, Peter nails his routine so perfectly that by the second time he performs it for her, there’s practically nothing left to teach him.

“You’ve been practicing,” Natasha says with an approving smile.

“I have,” Peter confirms, “and we’ve still got half an hour left. Now tell me, what’s up?”

“What?” she frowns when he takes a seat beside her, nudging her shoulder playfully.

“Come on, N— _Miss_ Natasha. You’re usually so organised. It’s not like you to lose track of the time during a lesson, or have a rushed lunch. So, let me ask again. What’s up?”

 _What’s up_ sounds suspiciously like _what’s wrong_ , but it’s not like Peter would ever understand the mixed feelings of returning home every Christmas, or how she’s somehow dreading and eager to see a certain smile at the same time, so she just shrugs.

“I’ve just been rushing through this week. You know my flight’s tonight, and I really don’t want to leave any loose ends before I take off, so.”

“The camp will be fine, if that’s what you’re worried about,” says Peter. “The holidays are for relaxing, so go have a great time with your family. They’ll be fine; we all will.”

Natasha manages a smile. “You’re one of the best students I’ve got, kid,” she tells him, because it’s the truth and he deserves to know it. “ _Very_ gullible, though. Try not to send any money to Nigerian princes when I’m gone.”

“That was one time,” he defends. 

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

_Just finished boarding! Can’t wait to see you!!!!_

No—way too enthusiastic. Natasha deletes the line from the text message box, then tries again.

_I’ll be there in a couple of hours. I miss you so much._

He would scoff at this and tease her for being sentimental. She shakes her head, deletes it again.

_We’ve got a lot of catching up to do ;)_

Suggestive in a creepy way. Natasha shudders, but before she can even press backspace, a flight attendant comes up to her seat to make her put her phone away. Guess she’ll just have to wait till she sees him in person. 

Here’s the thing. Natasha Romanoff has never been able to pinpoint the exact moment she fell in love with Clint Barton. Since the first day, probably. Or maybe when they were eight and he taught her how to build a pillow fort on a couch. Or when they were twelve and he took responsibility for something she did and sat through a detention session meant for her.

Point is, it hasn’t always been like this. She used to see him every day, as one sees the sun every day. Then she moved away and he stayed and now she’s blessed with his presence only two weeks a year.

So, yeah, it’s a big deal. Every year she’s crushed by the endless _what-if_ s that come along with the trips: what if he’s changed so drastically that he won’t like her anymore? What if he got married without telling her? What if _she’s_ the one who changed and didn’t notice?

Still, he’s there waiting, always; steady as any boulder that’s stood in the same river for centuries. He grows more and more attractive every time she sees him, he smiles a little less, but Natasha wouldn’t trade him or the feeling she gets around him for the world.

It’s been three years since she moved to LA for her career. Three years since the two of them stopped joking around about what he’d do when Alexei and Melina finally saved up enough for her to get out of there; three years since the hug at the airport which didn’t really feel like a hug and more like things they left unsaid.

And there was so, so much.

Natasha sighs and leans back in her seat. The seatbelt sign turns on with a _ding_ , and the city lights that get dimmer and dimmer as the plane rises leave her alone with her thoughts. It’s going to be a torturous few hours.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“Alright, put that down,” Natasha tells Alexei exasperatedly. “It was funny at the Arrival hall, but now you’re just embarrassing me.”

Beside her, Yelena snorts as Alexei lowers his cardboard sign in disappointment, decorated with glittery stickers and, in neon pink, the words _FRESH OUT OF REHAB_.

“He stayed up all night making that sign,” says Melina, pulling Natasha’s luggage along even though she’d insisted she could handle it herself. It’s not filled with much, anyway—she keeps most of her winter clothing here since it’s never that cold in California, and during the few weeks that it is, she’s home. “No, really, he had to switch to an oil lamp because I was worried the electric bill would go up—”

Yelena clears her throat loudly to shut Melina up, which Natasha’s grateful for. LA has always been her dream, but a big part of her feels guilty for leaving her family, albeit adopted, behind to fend for themselves. During the first year she went around and auditioned a lot, but never seemed to be able to get any callbacks, so instead she signed on with a little training camp that teaches ballet and she’s grown to love it. It’s not much, but it’s consistent, and until her big breakthrough (which _will_ happen, it has to), she’s been sending back as much money as she can and hoping it’ll be enough for the water and the heating and the food.

And Clint.

They step outside the airport doors, and at once a gush of cold air rushes into Natasha’s lungs. It’s not snowing, but chunks of ice have been collected on the sides of the roads, and she takes extra care not to slip on them. Her family starts talking about the nice dinner they’ve planned to celebrate her arrival, and it’s not long before they reach the little house Natasha and Yelena grew up in, familiar and cozy as ever.

Dinner passes by in a merry whirl of warmth, chocolate and laughter she’s only heard over the phone for nearly a year. Natasha tells them about how just the other week she bumped into her ex James from ballet school and how he’s finally dating Steve Rogers now (and Yelena owes her five bucks for it).

By the time the plates on the table are cleared, they’re all at least a little bit drunk. They sit on the carpet in front of the fireplace and pull out their old Monopoly board game. After Melina wins and Yelena accuses her of cheating, they switch to charades and even though Natasha’s tired, she’s _happy_. She tries to imitate someone running and shooting a bow and arrow, but all they’re coming up with are empty guesses like _archery_ and _sports_ and _what do you mean it’s not archery?_

And then a voice from the doorway smoothly guesses, “The Hunger Games.”

Natasha’s heart drops into her stomach when she relaxes her stance and looks to her left. The blue-eyed smile she’s been thinking about every day for the past two weeks is real and in front of her now, and the splendid glory of just being in the same room as him is too much to bear. Natasha rushes forward, right into Clint’s arms.

He chuckles into her shoulder and she doesn’t let go. His jacket smells like wood and coffee and it’s got to be a few minutes until she finally releases him, holding him at an arm’s distance because she’s so drawn to him she can’t _not_ be touching him, apparently.

“Hey, you,” she smiles softly. He returns it, and something starts fluttering around in her stomach.

“I take it I guessed correctly.”

“You always do.”

Alexei coughs pointedly and Clint subtly rolls his eyes.

“Why didn’t you, uh…” Clint fishes out his phone from his back pocket. “Why didn’t you answer my text?”

Natasha looks at the screen he’s showing her. His unanswered text reads, _i miss you! can’t wait to see you. ;)_

Huh. She smiles a bit. “I’m sorry. I haven’t checked my phone since I got off the flight. Yelena practically threw herself at me when she first saw me,” she chuckles.

“It’s understandable,” he reasons. “That’s what you just did to me.”

“I don’t see you complaining, Barton.”

“I’m not. I missed you,” he replies smoothly.

If she blushes, it’s because of the cold.

“Anyways,” Clint starts. “It’s late. I know it’s been a long day for you, so get some rest, Nat, hmm?”

“What?” she frowns, trying to ignore the disappointment setting in. “You just got here.”

“I know, and I’m sorry I was so late. I thought you could use some quality time with your family, but I just—well, I wanted to see you.”

“Clint’s right,” Alexei says. “It’s nearly midnight.”

Natasha chooses not to tell them about how she’s been staying up long past midnight every day to practice, to avoid any further fussy mothering.

“The boy needs his sleep too,” Yelena points out, and she relents.

“Okay,” Natasha says, “okay, fine. But I’m coming over, first thing in the morning, okay?” She looks at him intently. 

Clint lets out a laugh, taken aback, and _she’s_ about to take it back when he grins. “Sure. Of course.”

“I’ll see you then,” she says, relieved.

“Bye, Nat,” he says before slipping out noiselessly like the way he came. The house is eerily quiet in the few moments that follow the echoing door, and then they pounce.

“Are you serious—”

“Natasha, oh my _God_ —”

“What was that?”

She turns exasperatedly. “ _What_?”

They stare at her in silence, then Yelena says, “tell him.”

Natasha exhales. “No.”

This stirs up a general sound of disappointment and disagreement amongst the three of them.

“It’s been years, Natasha,” Melina says. “We can see it in your eyes. It’s always the eyes.”

“I can’t,” she says resolutely. “It’s not fair. To either of us.” She sighs. “Uh… I think we could all use some sleep.”

“Goodnight, Nat,” says Yelena. She stares before adding, “come here.”

Natasha’s face breaks into a tired smile as her family stands to hug her. Sure, in LA she’s got Peter and Tony and Pepper, but when it comes down to it, there’s not a single place where she’s able to feel as loved as right here. 

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“Morning,” Melina greets without looking up from the papers. “There’s cereal in the cabinets, but I’m sure Clint prepared something for you too.” She looks up and winks.

“If all of you are this hell-bent on teasing me about Clint, don’t expect me back too soon,” Natasha jokes before ducking out of the living room. “Tell Alexei and Yelena I said good morning.”

“Don’t forget your coat,” Melina calls, and Natasha ducks back in to take it from where it’s hanging.

“Hi,” Clint answers the door, and his eyebrows raise in amusement at Natasha practically bouncing in front of his door.

“It’s cold,” Natasha says, taking in the sight of Clint in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. “Are you not cold?”

“Thought you were Russian,” says Clint, opening the door wider and turning to lead her in. “Come in. Don’t tell me you’ve already gotten used to the LA weather?”

“Hard not to,” she admits, letting him take her coat. Her eyes land on the peanut butter toast on Clint’s dining table and she gasps.

“Your favourite,” Clint smiles softly. “It’s still warm.”

Just a few years back, Natasha wouldn’t even have considered peanut butter toast as her favourite. It’s a long story, one that involves a visit to the city and an ill-timed earthquake. They’d been trapped in a building for at least two hours, and to calm Natasha down Clint had taken her to the nearest diner afterwards and ordered the cheapest item of food, which just so happened to be peanut butter toast.

So, peanut butter toast equals Clint nearby equals danger over equals safety and comfort.

Clint sits down across from Natasha and rests his leg on her chair. She rolls her eyes fondly but allows it, trying not to look like it’s fazing her at all, when in reality all she wants to do is lean into his touch and call him home.

“Let’s go do something later,” Clint suggests when she’s half done with her toast.

“Sure,” Natasha responds. “Do what?”

“Whatever you want to,” he says earnestly.

This is how, after a quick text to Melina that she probably won’t be back until dinner, they end up sitting in Clint’s trusty old truck that he’s owned since Harold died. She hasn’t been home in a year, and yet she knows for a fact that there are at least three of her hair ties still trapped in the gap between the passenger seat and the center console, and that Clint hasn’t replaced the Swan Lake CD she mailed to him two years ago.

“It’s been better this year, actually,” Clint’s saying. “The hens decided to randomly lay more eggs than usual. Yeah, business was going great on the farm. Until, well. You know.”

She does know. “How’s the farm?” she asks. “Not the _farm_ , but. Laura. The kids. How are they doing?”

“They’re coping,” he says vaguely. “We all are, I think.”

Natasha risks reaching over a bit to lay her hand over his.

“He was never really home, anyway,” he continues, nodding his head like he’s trying to reassure her, “so it didn’t really make a difference. Still doesn’t.”

 _But you should’ve been here_ , Natasha hears. _My brother died and left a whole family behind and you were off, what, dancing?_

Her breath fogs up the windshield glass. There’s so much she wants to say, _needs_ to say, but for now she settles with, “I’m sorry,” and hopes it’s enough.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint says, instead of _it’s not your fault_ , instead of _I promise I’m okay_. “Aright, c’mon. Enough of that; it’s the holiday season. Where do you wanna go?”

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

It does take her a few minutes to get used to the slipperiness, but after that she’s practically flying across the frozen surface of the rink, coat billowing out behind her.

“Show-off,” Clint calls from the other side, and the snowball he throws at her hits her right in the face. She gasps from the sudden splash of cold, but he starts laughing, hands on knees, and she starts laughing too.

Natasha does a few more spins, then curtsies for him while he claps and cheers. He skates over, almost getting knocked over by a random kid speeding around the rink, and she spots the ice cream sandwiches in his hands.

“I got us lunch,” he grins, and her heart warms. “Are you tired yet, of zooming around?”

“It’s freezing, Clint,” she says, accepting the sandwiches anyway.

“I’ll lend you my jacket,” he replies casually. “When’s the last time you had frozen food in frozen weather, hmm?”

True to his word, Clint does lend her his jacket when she gets an inevitable brain-freeze. (“That is _weak_ , Romanoff.”) They’re back in his truck now, and he still hasn’t asked for it back even though she looks ridiculous with the jacket layered over her already-bulky coat, because now he apparently wants to go see Christmas lights.

“Okay, am I missing something?” Natasha says. “Because from where I’m sitting, the sun is clearly still in the sky.”

“There’s going to be way too many people if we go at night,” Clint explains. “We’d be more prone to accidents, too. Plus, I promised your daddy I’d have you home by dinner.”

“Oh, is this a date then, Barton?” she teases.

“Only if you want it to be,” he quips back, watching her enjoy the last few bites of her ice cream sandwich slowly while he’d wolfed his down in a matter of minutes.

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re something else, you know?” She finishes the sandwich and dusts her hands off. “Okay. Okay, fine, we can go see the Christmas lights.”

“Yes!” Clint raises both his arms, and Natasha fleetingly notices how he’s tall enough that his hands can hit the ceiling of the truck now. “You’ve got a bit of ice cream on the side of your mouth, by the way.”

She acts offended. “You’re not going to help me get it like the gentleman you are?”

“Alright, Romanoff.” He leans over, pulls the collar of her turtleneck up just a little bit to wipe the spot off, and smiles. “There. Happy?”

Natasha’s heart is pounding so loud in her chest she’s legitimately scared that he’ll hear it. “Only if you didn’t smudge my lipstick,” she says and hopes she doesn’t sound as breathless as she feels.

“Ah, yes, because smudged lipstick always leads to oh so many questions.”

Natasha has to physically restrain herself from just grabbing his face and kissing him, grateful her fastened seat belt can act as a buffer. Instead, she rolls her eyes. “Drive, idiot.”

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“Pretty,” Natasha gasps like a little kid, fingers lingering on the cold window.

“Hmm?” Clint follows her gaze.

The sidewalk beside them is lined with trees, golden fairy lights winding around the trunks and branches of every one of them. It’s not entirely dark yet, but the lights fill her up with warmth and Natasha can’t help but smile.

Clint pulls over and parks on the side of the road. Natasha looks over, confused, as Clint opens his door and climbs out.

“Clint, wait,” Natasha says, stumbling out of the truck and scrambling to take his jacket off. “You’ll catch a cold. What… are you doing?”

“Getting pictures, of course,” he replies, accepting his jacket and draping it over his shoulders. He takes his phone out from seemingly nowhere and holds it up. “Smile!”

“What?” She says, the same moment his phone issues the _snap_ sound. Clint takes one look at the picture and giggles.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Natasha protests, grabbing for his phone. “I wasn’t ready— _hey_ —”

They wrestle for a few seconds, but Clint is endlessly taller than Natasha, and she’s left catching her breath while he grins smugly.

“I’ll let you keep that,” Natasha pants, “on one condition.”

“I would do anything,” Clint exaggerates.

“Good,” she smiles. “Take a picture with me.”

“Of course, Nat,” he says, and she melts. “C’mere.”

Her waist burns from his gentle touch as he snaps the selfie, and even though she knows he’ll send it to her as soon as he gets a Wi-Fi signal, their soft smiles will forever be ingrained in her mind regardless.

“There,” Clint says, so close it’s practically right in her ear. “You look beautiful. Tash.”

She hasn’t heard that nickname in a year. Slowly and carefully, she turns her head to look at him, his hand not leaving her waist. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Barton.”

Ignoring the part of her brain that’s trying to think rationally, her hand comes up to trace his jaw. When she gets to his chin, he takes her hand with his own and leans in until their foreheads are touching.

It takes an agonisingly long ten seconds before his lips are finally on hers, slow and gentle and _right_. He cups her cheek and she fists her hand in his shirt until it’s all they can do to not drown in the feel of each other, and when they pull apart for air she sighs into the space between them, watching it turn into visible white swirls.

“Natasha,” Clint breathes.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“She’s back!” Yelena shouts, and Natasha rolls her eyes as she takes off her coat. “How was your date? Your—“ she checks the time on the clock— “your ten hour date?”

“I mean, honestly, Natasha,” says Melina, seated at the dining table. “That has to be a record of some kind.”

“Clint and I hang out all the time,” Natasha says defensively and tries not to blush. “It’s not weird.”

“Oh, hi.” Alexei steps out of the kitchen, wearing an apron. “How was your day?”

“It was good.” _Fucking fantastic._ “We went ice skating and drove around town.” _He kissed me like there was no tomorrow and I finally get it now, what you and Melina and Tony and Pepper have, except that we’ve already made it our own somehow, the stuff that’s written down and immortalised in books and movies. Nothing’s ever felt this right._

Yelena raises an eyebrow, and Natasha changes the subject before she can see right through her lies. All she wants to do is gush about Clint and what happened to her family, the people who understand her the most, but right now it’s too early to tell what _this_ even is. She doesn’t want them to plan a whole wedding and get let down when it doesn’t work out.

And it probably won’t, as much as it hurts to think it. Clint has to stay; he’s got the farm and the in-laws to take care of, especially now that Barney’s gone. And abandoning LA is unthinkable. It would be betraying herself.

Burying these thoughts deep down, Natasha nods at some story Melina’s telling and takes a bite of the pasta Alexei cooked.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“Oh, you are officially insane,” Clint declares, watching her climb into his house from the kitchen window, giggling when she lands on the floor.

“Hey, they live, like, right next door,” Natasha says when she recovers, still flat on the kitchen tiles. “Couldn’t risk some light spilling out and waking them, or something.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Clint, standing up from the couch to offer Nat a hand. He hauls her up and they stand inches apart, her eyes fixed on his lips.

“Absolutely ridiculous,” she agrees before pulling him down. The kiss is chocolate and lollipops and comfortably warm. He grins and pulls her onto the couch, turning the TV on with his remote.

“About time you came,” he says. “It’s empty without you, you know.”

“I know.” Natasha returns his smile and throws her legs over his lap.

When she jerks awake, it takes her two seconds to figure out why. It’s dark outside and she must’ve fallen asleep during the movie and her hand flies up to cup his face.

“Hey, look at me,” she’s signing. “You okay? Clint—”

She lets out a surprised _oh_ when he gently pushes her hands down, trying not to sound too hurt. Nightmares have always been something she’s not unfamiliar with, as is Clint never accepting help. Deep down, he’s just as lonely as she is. Clint grabs his hearing aids from the coffee table and puts them in, hands shaking.

“You’re alright,” Natasha says tentatively. 

“No—I mean, okay, but no—” Clint sits up and edges away from her. Natasha frowns.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You can tell me, Clint. You can always tell me—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Clint says, and Natasha’s stunned into silence.

She leans back and nods. Gets off his lap, stands, takes her coat.

“No, wait,” Clint eventually scrambles to say. “Tasha.”

Natasha turns, slowly, dangerously. “Yes?” she whispers.

“I’m sorry. I—don’t go.”

She takes a few steps towards where he’s still sitting on the couch. “I’m going to ask you this once, Clint, and you be honest with me now, because you know how much I hate it when you lie to me. _Are you okay_?” She accentuates the three words, watching his thoughts flash across his face.

“No,” he says simply, and her worst fears are realised when he stands to match her stance. The fact that he’s taller than her a good few inches should intimidate her somehow, but Natasha stays unmoving, recognising this simply as two broken shells of two people finally, _finally_ having the inevitable conversation they thought was worth avoiding.

“No,” Clint repeats, and his words start flowing in earnest now, like a dam that’s burst on the edge of a city, waves crashing over and flooding Natasha’s streets. “No, Natasha, you _left_. And you don’t understand the… the gaping _hole_ it left in me. It’s like nothing’s the same, now that you’re… now that you’re fucking gone.” His tone is harsh, his words cutting into her like a blade.

“And you’re telling me this now?” She says, mainly to deflect that her paranoia about leaving town three years ago, for once, stemmed from something real. If he wants a fight, he’ll get one. “Jesus, Barton, three years. And it’s Christmas.”

“I just… I thought you had the right to know.”

She scoffs. “You think _I’ve_ been the same? I moved away from everything I’ve known, Clint, everything that’s been here since Melina and Alexei adopted me. It was a huge risk, and now you’re, what, trying to guilt-trip me for it?”

He looks horrified. “Natasha, that’s not what I’m—”

“Then what _are_ you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m hurting, Nat, so much, and you—you weren’t here. That’s the one thing I remember, the one thing I _will_ remember.”

Natasha asks, “Is this about Barney?”

He exhales, exasperated. “I don’t know, maybe! Part of it is, I guess. No one ever stopped and asked, like, _really_ asked me how I felt about it, and I’ve been burying myself in work trying to help the family get back on their feet, but I—” He sighs. “I don’t know if ignoring this was the right choice, Nat.”

She lets him finish this time. “Okay. Okay, so: what _do_ you feel about Barney?”

“Nothing.” Clint’s voice cracks. “Nothing at all. God, Natasha, I figured there should’ve been at least some sort of—some _thing_ , frustration or pain or even relief, but—nothing. What’s—” he presses his hand to his mouth so the tears won’t spill— “What’s wrong with me? Am I wired wrong? Maybe that would explain…”

He sits back down onto the couch, face buried in his hands.

“You’re not wired wrong, Clint,” Natasha says, like she’s calling a little kid silly. Her voice is softer now, but she’s still standing. “There’s no such thing. Everyone deals with this shit differently—c’mon.”

He looks up at her. “I miss you. You know? It’s obvious, but… it hurts. It hurts, every goddamn day.”

“I know it does,” she says, giving in and sinking onto the seat beside him. “But you’ve got no right to be mad at me for leaving, and I stand by that.”

Clint sighs. “Why did it have to be like this?”

“It’s not fair,” she concurs. “But do you even know what _this_ is?”

He shakes his head, but it’s not exactly a no. “Nat, I…”

“I mean, we obviously want each other more than… more than we’re letting on,” Natasha says, knowing damn well she’s loved him for years. For over half her life. “And I’ve got a little more than a week here.”

He understands now. 

“Figure this out first, maybe,” she breathes, and in some twisted way it sounds like a hopeful suggestion. Natasha doesn’t know how it does, when all she’s feeling is the hope draining _out_ of her. “But promise me you won’t lose yourself. Figure yourself out, too.” _I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t._

He nods grimly, all business. “I will.”

“Goodnight, Clint.” She kisses him on the cheek and takes her time walking to the door. She doesn’t turn, though, doesn’t declare her love in the same dramatic way characters in movies do, doesn’t tell him _every time you look at me it’s like a knife is twisting its way into me. It’s always been you, Clint, open your fucking eyes_ , doesn’t kiss him like she’s drowning and he’s the only thing that can bring her to the surface.

Instead, she leaves.

Albeit short, the walk back is humiliating. The snow on the road seeps into her boots and she realises too late that she’d left her coat at Clint’s, but there’s no way she could turn back now. She’s certain if she even sees his face in the next twenty-four hours, she’d throw herself at him and beg him to take her back even though there’s no chance it could work and that would not be a good look.

She returns through the front door, too bothered to even care if she gets caught. Maybe they’ll even ground her, if she’s lucky. No one wakes, though; it’s just her, alone, stumbling onto her bed until there are tears in her hair and on her pillow. She misses his arms.

It takes some time, but Natasha sleeps.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“Natasha, come _on_ ,” Melina scolds, sitting on the edge of Natasha’s bed and shaking her by the shoulder gently.

“No,” she whines softly, burying her face into the blankets on her bed. 

“It’s 1pm, Nat.”

“I know, but… let me stay here for a while?”

Melina raises an eyebrow. “Are you sick?” She reaches to touch Natasha’s forehead.

“No, I’m fine, Melina,” Natasha insists. “I just need some alone time, okay?”

Melina hums. “Are you sure? Or do you just need… time?”

She’s always seen right through her, ever since she was a little kid. When Natasha shifts to lie down with her head in Melina’s lap instead, she doesn’t say a word and lets Natasha cry, putting a comforting hand on her back.

“I fucked up, Mom,” Natasha sobs, shaking her head. “We both did.” It’s the kind of pain that’s bone-deep and mind-numbing, and time heals but she’s not sure if this is something she can ever recover from.

“I know, sweetie,” says Melina. “I know.” Her hand brushes through Natasha’s hair, attempting to untangle the knots in it as painlessly as possible.

Yelena walks in through the door, and it doesn’t take her long to walk across the small room. She kneels beside the bed, taking Natasha’s hands in her own smaller ones. “Natasha.”

She smiles, barely and watery. “Hey.”

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says abruptly, sandwiched between Melina and Yelena on the couch.

Alexei looks up, away from the movie, and Yelena turns her head, waiting for an explanation.

Natasha sighs. “It’s Christmas. And I’m just… at home, every day, moping around. I haven’t even been helping with the housework, or anything.”

“You don’t worry about the housework, girl,” says Melina quick and intentional, knowing exactly how rough her foster parents used to be on her years and years ago, scars faint but still showing till this day.

“This should be the happiest season of the year,” continues Natasha. “And I’m just sucking the happiness out of everyone. So, I’m sorry.”

Yelena passes her the tub of ice cream. “You’re not sucking anything out,” she says. “You’re here, and that’s all it takes to feel like Christmas.”

“She’s right,” says Alexei in the armchair. “We’ll make the boy pay, too.”

Natasha smiles. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You love him.”

He scoffs and defends, “Barton helps with the workload, okay—“

“And anyway, so do you,” Melina says. “You love him.”

“I do,” Natasha says, and somehow saying it out loud makes it hurt even more. Clint Barton is a star, and yet everything else keeps outweighing him. It’s unfair and selfish, but she hasn’t really got a choice.

Natasha leans into Melina and Yelena leans into Natasha until the three of them mold together as one. She closes her eyes and relishes in the feeling of comfort, of her favourite people telling her silently that they probably can’t come close to understanding, but will always be there as pillars of support no matter what she chooses in the end.

The movie long forgotten, Natasha holds on right to that thought with both hands and lets go of everything else for a moment.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

Three days after The Incident, Natasha wakes in the dead of night to her phone’s ringtone. She grabs it and swipes the screen to answer the call swiftly to avoid waking anyone else.

“Romanoff,” she says, sitting up. If this is just a scammer and she had to wake up at—she checks the clock— _three in the morning_ for nothing—

“Romanoff, it’s Barnes,” comes the voice from the other end.

“James?” she says tentatively, praying he isn’t drunk calling her. “What’s up?”

“Okay. Um… remember when I told you I don’t work in ballet anymore the other week?” he says, and someone in the background—Rogers—says, “Just tell her; God.”

“Alright, alright. I lied,” says James. “I’m actually director of an _okay_ -ish ballet theatre camp, and you told me the whole situation with the training camp and your family, and I was thinking… would you like to… _join_ , maybe?”

Natasha’s taken aback. “Oh. That’s… very kind of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he feigns nonchalance, and Natasha laughs politely. “Steve made me do it. But I remember you being one of, if not the best, of the girls in our school, and we’re recruiting people soon, really soon. So, what do you say?”

Yelena stares at her and blinks. Melina has her lips parted, expression unreadable, and Alexei a slight frown on his face.

Six hours have passed since the call, and Natasha’s prepared to do anything to make her family see reason. _I’ll do my best_ , she’ll say, _and you won’t have to worry about rent or food or bills anymore._

And then Melina nods. Yelena and Alexei offer small smiles.

“It’s okay, Natasha,” says Alexei. “We understand. And the audition is…”

“The 26th,” she supplies. “So I’ll have to leave… the morning after Christmas.”

Alexei and Melina exchange glances, wrecking Natasha’s nerves. The last thing she wants to do is have her family feel that they’re not worth enough for her to stay even a few days longer, but this could be it. She’s waited years and sworn to herself to take any available opportunity, and she hopes more than anything that they’ll see reason now.

“You’ll always have our full support,” Melina assures her.

“I believe in you,” Yelena adds excitedly. She’s been jumping at all chances to cheer Natasha up lately, and while she doesn’t hate it, every tiny reminder of what happened that night with Clint still stings.

“All we have to do now is squeeze a few more days’ worth of cheer in!” Alexei says optimistically, and finally Natasha relaxes, breaking into a relieved smile.

“Thank you,” she sighs. “I love you.”

“We love you too,” Yelena says before bounding forward to give her a hug. Over her shoulder, Melina catches Natasha’s eyes and gives her a look— _you know what you have to do._

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

Natasha hugs herself as a feeble attempt to warm herself up a little, waiting for an answer. She tries again.

“Clint,” she calls, knocking on the door. “Clint, please, I know you might not want to see me right now, but I need to—“

 _I need to see_ you _. I need to make sure I don’t leave while we’re still on bad terms. You’re my best friend, and I don’t ever want that to change, ever._

Three minutes pass, and Natasha sighs. She’s about to make herself comfortable standing outside his door—he can’t stay in there forever—when she looks down and notices his front door isn’t even closed, let alone locked. She inspects the gap like it’s going to do anything, then pushes it further open.

“Clint, I’m coming in,” she says, stepping into his house.

Ignoring the pang in her heart that comes with being in the same place she last saw him, Natasha looks around, horrified. The place is a mess. Paperwork lies strewn on the floor, chairs no longer standing the way they’re supposed to, and even his coffee machine is knocked over on the dining table. 

“Clint?” she repeats, wandering further into the house. “Clint, I swear, if this is a joke—“

It’s not. Natasha gets increasingly worried as minutes pass and she doesn’t get a response, and even more so when she steps into his bedroom to find ruffled sheets and open books face-down on his old rug. 

The house is abandoned. Clint’s truck is still parked outside, as if waiting for its owner to climb in. So: where is Clint?

Slowly, helplessly, Natasha sinks onto the floor. She’d been so immersed in mourning the end of something she’d brought upon herself that she didn’t even think to check on Clint once. Now he’s nowhere to be seen, and she doesn’t even know if he’s safe, or alive even—

 _Breathe._ Natasha’s gaze lands on the nearest book on the floor, and she realises with a jolt that it’s Clint’s copy of _Peter Pan_. She traces the cover art with her finger silently, thinking back to all of the times he’d read it to her, fantasising about leaving the town and running away with her forever. They’d even had a pact to get married then, and Natasha thinks, _fuck_. Of course, Edith and Harold had died afterwards and Barney and Laura got married and leaving just seemed too selfish of a thing to do.

She’d left anyway.

She picks the book up gently, and her heart skips a beat when a slip of paper falls out from between the pages. It rustles when she holds it tightly and reads the words in Clint’s handwriting.

~~_SorrysorrysorrysorrysorryI’msosorry_ ~~

_Nat—remember our lake?_

Natasha wastes no time in rushing back out of the house and, upon seeing the key already inserted in the lock, climbing into the driver seat of Clint’s truck. She drives like she’s trying to beat an earthquake or a pack of wolves or a battlefield on the trenches, like she’ll die if she doesn’t see him soon. 

It could be two or ten or fifty minutes until she sees the familiar forest. It’s beautiful in the winter; snow covering the tips of the trees like powdered sugar, but she can’t be bothered to stop and admire it. She stops the truck and throws herself out the same way she threw herself in, nearly slipping on the snow. She keeps running until she sees the clearing, and the lake.

Clint Barton looks up from where he’s sitting on a log, and suddenly Natasha Romanoff is fine again.

“Oh, my God,” she mutters, walking towards him until he’s standing too. “Clint. You scared me; you scared me so bad.” Carefully, she reaches out and runs her hand through his hair. He lets her.

“Tasha,” he says like it’ll be the last word he ever does. “Tasha. You came.”

“Of course I came. Clint, I miss you.” Somehow, that’s not enough. I miss you, I’ve been crying every night, I’m sorry we were put in this absurd situation where we had no choice but to destroy each other. 

“I miss you, too,” he says, leaning forward till their foreheads are touching. “Shit, Nat. I’m so sorry.”

“I just…” Natasha clears her throat. “I wanted to tell you, uh, I signed up for this audition next week, and I’ll have to leave sooner than planned.” She watches him take this in, first surprise and disappointment, then a tired kind of resignation.

“That’s good,” he says sincerely. “I hope you get it; I really do.”

She smiles, and it finally feels right. “Thank you.”

“Anyway, Nat.” He holds her hand and brings their entwined hands up into the space between their chests. “I thought about what you said, and I think I get it now.

“You told me to figure this out. You were right, about me wanting you more than I should. But, Natasha, I’ll be happy if I even get to spend a fraction of my life with you.

“You also told me to figure myself out, and I did. The only answer I can give you is… _you_. I’m yours, Natasha, and I don’t care if it’s for our whole lives or just for a weekend. And even though we don’t have much time, I think I would really, really like to spend however long we do have kissing you.”

Natasha laughs, tears in her eyes she’s not bothering to hide. Clint wants her.

“I mean, aside from the fact that you are a really good kisser…” he continues, “we can’t let years of this go to waste. Right?”

“Right,” she nods. “And even if it doesn’t work out in the end, we’ll always have this to hold onto?”

“Always,” Clint echoes. “That night… I’m not proud of what happened, but before all of it, I dreamed of you,” he says, and before she can reply with _I figured_ , he continues, “You were right. I don’t have any right to be mad at you. But it’s me I’m mad at, Nat; not you. I should’ve come clean sooner, should’ve told you how I really felt about you. I was scared it would’ve stopped you from leaving or something, but now you’re really gone, _all the time_ , and I never see you anymore. Do you get it now?

“It was never about Barney or the farm, Natasha. It was always about you.”

“Good,” says Natasha. “It was always about you, too.”

They lean into each other this time, and when their lips meet Natasha sighs, desperate for more. Clint has always been her person, and now that they’re in agreement that they basically can’t live without each other, this just feels like exactly what she’s been waiting for. They stumble back into the truck, Natasha’s hand creeping under his sweatshirt and Clint’s kisses turning deeper.

“Morning,” Clint says softly, and Natasha sighs in content.

“I could get used to this.” His bed is warm and his blanket is soft and grey and she thinks she would be happy to live here forever. She peppers his face with kisses and feels his smile against hers.

“Yeah?” His grin grows and he kisses her again. She snuggles closer. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

She wishes she could say the same, but for now she winds her legs around his, basking in the warmth that is being loved by Clint Barton.

“Although,” he starts. “You should probably tell your family where you’ve been for the past… twenty hours?”

Natasha picks up her phone from the bedside table and reluctantly sits up. 

_29 missed calls from Alexei, Melina, Yelena. Swipe to open._

She curses, then curses again when a series of knocks come from Clint’s front door.

“Barton!” says Yelena from outside. “Barton, have you seen Nat?”

“Shit,” Clint says, throwing a pile of clothes he’d picked up from the floor at Natasha. “We’ll be just a minute!” he calls.

“ _We_?” Yelena yells back, and Clint cringes.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

“Please,” Clint gasps, trying not to laugh too hard and consequently spit out the wine he’s had. “Natasha, look at you!”

“That can’t be me,” she defends, snatching the photo album out of Alexei’s smug hands and staring open-mouthed. Eight-year-old Natasha smiles up at her in a ridiculously bulky pumpkin outfit. 

“Halloween used to be so fun when you were little,” Melina says.

“You forced me into that outfit, didn’t you?” Natasha accuses.

“But you agreed,” Alexei says, and Clint stifles a laugh.

Natasha turns the page, and her breath catches at all the photos of Clint and her together, laughing in some of them but happy in all.

“That’s you, Barton,” she murmurs and he smiles, because in the end, it doesn’t matter how much they’ve grown or changed over the years, not really. Not when they still know who the other is at their core more than they do themself, not when growing up inseparable leaves them destined to be entwined together till the day they die.

Natasha looks up at Alexei and Melina. “Thank you,” she says, and she doesn’t just mean the presents, she means thank you for letting Clint come over for Christmas dinner because you knew it would’ve been another year alone otherwise, thank you for raising us both and doing a hell of a good job at it.

Judging by the twinkle in their eyes, they know exactly what she means.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

The ~~morning~~ dawn after Christmas, Natasha turns to see Clint standing in the doorway of his room.

“Oh. Good morning,” she says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Why? So you could escape saying goodbye?” he says light-heartedly, then walks up to her to press an array of buttons on the coffee machine she’s spent the past five minutes trying to turn on. “Here; let me get that for you.”

“Thanks,” she says, and they wait for the machine to finish pouring the coffee into her mug in silence. When it does, she takes a sip and Clint immediately puts his own mug underneath the machine. At least he’s not drinking it straight from the pot like he did last year.

It’s cold, especially since the sun hasn’t risen yet, and the coffee helps a little. When Clint puts an arm around her shoulder as they watch the morning sunlight start to creep in through the windows, she leans into him like he’s the only thing keeping her upright.

“I guess…” he clears his throat, then tries again. “I guess it would be selfish for me to ask you to stay.”

She turns her head slightly to look up at him. “And it would be unfair for me to ask you to wait.”

Still, she can’t help her gaze drifting down to his lips. The kiss is insecure and aching, but somehow still perfect. Clint has the ability to turn everything perfect, she realises.

“I need to go, my love,” Natasha says on an exhale, and she watches him nod with tears in his eyes.

How did it come to this? The last thing she’s ever wanted was to hurt him, and yet.

It’s just like he said. This has been years in the making. There hasn’t ever been anything as clear or unavoidable or inevitable.

“I know,” Clint finally says. 

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

_Clint_

_Clint can you call me_

_I have news!!!_

(Read 13:11, Dec 30)

❅ ❅ ❅ ❅ ❅

Clint stares at the string of texts Natasha’s sent and hopes to God she’s not pregnant. No, it’s probably not that.

He turns his phone off and leans his head against the wall. He’s been so inexplicably sad the past few days, and it’s taking a toll on him. Even Melina and Alexei came to check on him, and while it didn’t exactly hurt his pride, it made him realise he was acting like a kid and getting people worried.

He misses Natasha. God, he does.

He misses the way her face lit up whenever he visited and how her eyes give away everything she’s about to say. The way she held her hand and kissed him under the lights of the trees that day, and then again beside the lake they used to swim in at summer when she was still here.

He hadn’t expected it to be this bad. The first time she left was three years ago, which means this is the third time he’s had to stitch himself back together after Christmas, but before this December he never knew how waking up beside her and the thrill of being allowed to kiss her felt like.

And it felt like magic. Like finally letting yourself believe in fate.

On an impulse, Clint stands up straight. He stops moping, sends a quick text to Laura, and starts looking for a suitcase.

❅ ❅ ❅ ❅ ❅

“What?” says Melina. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s not a joke,” Clint says patiently. “Look, I’m—I’m going to do this, okay, and I can’t let a perfectly good truck and house go to waste.” The three of them stare at him as he puts the keys in Alexei’s hands.

“You’re really going to do this,” says Yelena incredulously. 

“Yeah,” Clint confirms, and he can feel his heartbeat speeding up just at the thought of it.

“Just… take care of yourself,” Alexei says. “And take care of her. If you don’t, we will have words.”

Clint laughs. “Yes, Sir. I promise. I love your daughter more than I love life.”

Alexei pats him on the shoulder. “You’re a good one.”

Yelena jumps forward to hug him. “Bye, Clint.”

“Thank you all so much,” he says as Alexei and Melina join the hug. “For everything. For being the family I wish I had.”

They hold each other a little tighter.

❅ ❅ ❅ ❅ ❅

Now that the goodbyes are out of the way, Clint excuses himself from the house and find a quiet spot beside the walls outside. He pulls out his phone again and dials a number he hasn’t in a long time, praying it hasn’t changed since.

Even if it has, that won’t stop him. He’ll keep trying and trying, over and over again, because Natasha’s waiting for him. Or so he’d like to think.

“Hello?” someone answers the phone, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief.

“Bucky,” he says. “Barnes, hey; it’s Barton. Remember me?”

“Clint!” Bucky says excitedly. “Of course I remember you. You’re the reason Natalia and I didn’t work out.”

Clint frowns. “Wait, what?”

Bucky laughs. “Nothing. What do you need, man?”

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

The party is loud. On top of his millionaire friends, Stark has invited the _whole theatre camp_ for no reason comprehensible to Natasha, and she vaguely wonders how loud it _could_ get, what it’s going to sound like two hours from now when they watch the ball drop on live TV.

She turns away from the penthouse window when Pepper walks up to her with a drink in her hand that looks even more alcoholic than the one in Natasha’s, and that’s saying something.

“Great party, right?” Pepper says, and Natasha raises an eyebrow. Before she can even point out to Pepper that it is technically _her_ party, Pepper raises her arm to gesture towards a group of people gathered together somewhere on the other side of the enormous room-slash-floor. Upon closer inspection, she discovers that the people are gathered around Peter and Tony having a conversation.

“Oh, God, somebody save him,” Natasha says instantly. “He’s going to corrupt the kid.”

“Actually, judging by the way he’s looking at him, he’s probably considering the possibility of paying for his entire education plan,” says Pepper, and Natasha would scoff if they weren’t talking about Tony Stark.

James rushes past them abruptly. “No, dude,” he’s saying into the phone. “Take the Metro; it’s faster— _no_ , are you an idiot, of course not—”

“James?” Natasha says, and he stops.

“I… gotta go,” he says before hanging up. “Hi, Nat, hi… _great_ party, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, Pepper and I have… established that,” she says, trying not to sound awkward despite the fact that his hair is a mess and the top button of his shirt is open while they’re in the tower that belongs to the richest man in the city, longtime girlfriend of said man standing right beside her. “I—is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” James says, and Pepper politely removes herself from the conversation when Tony asks his robot-AI-machine-thing how much money he has in his bank account loudly. “That was just… a friend. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” says Natasha, taking a sip of her free drink, because apparently being eye candy doubles as a drink coupon to the barista.

“You look nice,” he says and she smiles. The conversation fizzles out, and then a blond blur passes by and James calls out, “hey, Steve,” and leaves her by the window alone.

Natasha watches the lights and windows and cars of the city blur together. There was a time when she would’ve thought it the most beautiful thing in the world. It still is, but before this she’d never experienced the rush of warmth that came with hearing Clint’s voice first thing in the morning.

She misses him like she’s lost a limb. Nothing’s the same now, and certainly not her, not when she compares life to life with Clint. The sky, a haze of light pollution, shows no stars at all.

Thirty minutes to midnight, Tony steps on a tiny elevated platform to make a speech and thank the theatre camp for coming, as if a billionaire sponsoring you with heaps, and Natasha means _heaps_ of money plus the added publicity wasn’t enough for James to accept the invitation and free food.

The food is, admittedly, incredible, but she’s not surprised.

Draping her cloak around her shoulders, Natasha tries to slip out the glass doors leading towards the huge deck of the penthouse, but she’s stopped by none other than—

“Rogers?” she says, and Steve smiles. “Shouldn’t you be listening to Stark’s speech? James is your boyfriend, after all.”

“Okay, alright,” Steve rolls his eyes fondly, as one does when they reunite with an old friend they haven’t seen in years. “You called it, we were in love this whole time, blah blah blah. Get it out of your system.”

“I’m happy for you two,” Natasha says sincerely. “I can’t believe I finally get to say that. _Congratulations_ , Steve and Bucky—”

“Don’t change the subject,” Steve says, even though there weren’t any previous subjects to begin with. “I saw you trying to sneak out. Where do you think you’re going?”

“I just wanted to get some air on the deck,” she explains. “Don’t take it personally, hmm?”

“The deck,” Steve repeats, suddenly no longer talking to her, instead lifting his gaze up to scan the room. “Right. I’ll tell him that.”

“Tell who?” she asks, but he’s already halfway across the room. “...We’ll catch up later, I guess.”

The automatic doors part for her, and even though it’s much colder outside she feels like she can breathe again. She makes her way to the edge of the deck, resting her hand on the railings of the glass fence and using her other hand to finish her drink.

She puts the empty glass on the railing and looks up at the moon, hoping Clint sees it too, hoping he’s thinking of her too.

Maybe ten minutes pass, and she hears someone say her name from behind. She turns, not really knowing what to expect.

Life is funny, sometimes.

Natalia’s foster mother used to tell her to expect the worst. In fact, she always expected the worst of _her_ , going on and on about how there was no way she would get a perfect score on the test or win the ballet competition.

 _Natasha_ ’s mom Melina, however, never stopped believing in her once. She tells her how if you believe in something, even to have that something cross your mind, it would materialise, but only if you wanted it enough. And now, here she is in LA with a job that she loves.

Maybe that theory works with people, too.

“Clint,” she’s saying, and before she knows it she’s launched herself into his arms again. “Oh, my God.” She takes in the suitcase standing on the floor beside him. “Clint,” she says again.

“Hi,” he breathes out, and then she’s kissing him like the past few days never happened, not the plane, not the pain.

“Why are you here? _How_ are you here?” She lets her hand wander into his hair, fascinated by how familiar it feels.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clint says like it’s a promise. “I gave everything to your parents.”

“What?” she breathes. “Slow down; hey.”

“When you left,” he begins, “everything lost its meaning. And I realised that a life without at least trying this with you, a life where we gave up and let nature run its course—that’s not a life I want to live, Nat.”

“What does this mean? What are you—what are you saying?” she asks, and hope wells up inside of her.

“Are you kidding?” Clint chuckles. “I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, and I might only have one suitcase worth of belongings and some cash, but I would take any unstable life if it meant I was with you.”

He’s staying. _He’s staying._

“And I know you thought it wasn’t fair to ask me to wait, but I’d fly back home if you told me to right now, even if there wasn’t any guarantee you’ll come back. I would wait for you forever, Natasha Romanoff.”

“I love you,” Natasha says, because what else is there to say? Through the doors, they hear the people start counting down from ten, and Natasha thinks, _already_?

“I love you,” Clint says, and it feels like an answer to every question she’s ever asked. 

“Oh,” she says, remembering. “I got into the theatre camp.”

“Yeah,” Clint grins, and he pulls her in for another kiss when the fireworks are launched and the cars start honking. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone!! tysm for reading and happy new year :))) here's to a much better year than the disaster that was 2020. cheers!!
> 
> [find me here!](https://cheree.carrd.co)


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